Jocelyn was still contemplating her missing brass knuckles when the lech bastard began leering at her. Not just at her: he did a fair scan of parties present, but there was enough in his eyes to prompt her to speak for the first time in an hour.
“I’m going to punch you, later.”
It was not as clever-sounding as she had intended, but nothing ever was. Clever wasn’t what she did.
Her intentions stated, it occurred to Jocelyn to look around the room. There was more than enough light to see by. In fact, the amount of piss-tinted light in the room was damned obnoxious. Everything about this room was obnoxious, Jocelyn mused. The bare concrete walls, the closeness of the bodies around her, the manacles around her wrists, the obvious uselessness of the people in the same situation. Except the woman near the door. Jocelyn hadn’t noticed her on her cursory glance around the room at their entrance, ten minutes ago. There was something deathly serious in the way she stared straight ahead. Serious, and deathly. Someone she could relate to. Jocelyn spoke up first,
“My name is Jocelyn.”
It wasn’t much of an introduction, but Jocelyn never knew how to start up a conversation. She thought their similar circumstances might make it easier. The man to her right introduced himself next, and so on around the room: the idiot on the other side of the room, the slight woman to Jocelyn’s left, then silence. She supposed it was probably an awkward quiet, but she had regretted beginning the talking, anyway. The woman near the door did not speak. Jocelyn moved her attention elsewhere, again.
The cell door, straight ahead, was windowless, and looked sturdy. There was no way it was too sturdy for Jocelyn, she thought. There was no way to find out. The six prisoners were restrained by manacles to a horizontal bar, bolted at roughly waist-height. She rolled her shoulders back in boredom, feeling the tendons and muscles crack, then eyed the bag at her feet.
The manacles around the prisoners’ hands were one-size-fit-all. Jocelyn’s brain leap-frogged over itself with thoughts: the items in her backpack, escape, the manacles, that lech’s stupid face, the tensing muscles of her forearms, the lech’s stupid face, escape- then it came to her. Thankfully, Jocelyn hadn’t struggled after the manacles were fastened. Where her skin could be torn and worn away, it was instead only irritated by the old metal clasps. Not as thankfully, her knuckles remained unbroken. Her captors had taken her quickly, and relieved her of both weapons and the use of her arms via restraints. She might be in a better mood if only she had gotten to break someone’s nose.
Jocelyn’s mind had drifted away, again. She tore it from thoughts of fist to breaking bone, and back to the required task: Escape. The bastards had not removed the soap from her backpack, and that might be her route out of the single-size manacles. Hopefully, the twig of a girl next to her also had not wasted energy attempting to shake out of her chains. The soap would only irritate her wounds. Jocelyn didn’t like the idea of relying on someone so apparently physically incapable, but there was no way for her get the backpack opened by herself with her feet. At least, Jocelyn didn’t think so.
She spoke to the center of the room,
“Help me get my backpack opened.”
It took a turn to the girl and repetition of the statement to make it clear who she was addressing. Together, they kicked the bag inexpertly until the zipper was pried open, and a few contents fell out. The soap was one of them.
“Soap up, and slip your hand out,” Jocelyn offered by way of explanation.
The girl nodded, and rested the inside of her right foot on the bar. She slid it gingerly across the rough cement floor, so that it came to rest centered in front of her. The others in the room focused all their attention on the soap, then the young woman.
Aware of her audience, the girl pushed her shoulders backwards into the concrete wall, as if attempting to disappear into it. She braced her hands against the bar running horizontally around the room, and allowed her hips to slide forward so that her feet were more free. With a toe, the she flipped the bar of soap nimbly onto the flat of the top of her foot. Balancing it like a practiced athlete, she performed a swift flip, sending it airborne. Jocelyn straightened in anticipation. Aiming it towards her right shoulder, the girl attempted to catch it in the last moment with a weight shift. She failed.
The bar landed in two pieces. Jocelyn slouched heavily and suddenly against her manacle cuffs. The weight of her body created a tense metal sound that pierced the heavy room. Eyes, skyward, she breathed out expressively.
The perv across from her began fiddling with something in his sleeve, and the other occupants lost interest in the feat almost immediately. They idly turned their attentions back to their own shuffling feet.
Jocelyn was deliberating whether the dumbness of her cell partners was, in fact, more, not less, obnoxious than talkative bunk mates she had in the past, when one of them finally spoke.
“Kick it here.”
The previously silent woman near the door appeared stoic as ever. Jocelyn was not sure she had spoken at all, but the soap was passed. The woman slid it carefully up the wall with a foot, then grasped it with the corresponding hand.
Perhaps using a secretive sweaty palm, the woman rubbed her way free of the chains, using the soap as lubricant, and her closely tied extremities as abrasives.
Freed of the chains, she walked purposefully across the room, and placed the bar in Jocelyn’s hand.
“I’m going to punch you, later.”
It was not as clever-sounding as she had intended, but nothing ever was. Clever wasn’t what she did.
Her intentions stated, it occurred to Jocelyn to look around the room. There was more than enough light to see by. In fact, the amount of piss-tinted light in the room was damned obnoxious. Everything about this room was obnoxious, Jocelyn mused. The bare concrete walls, the closeness of the bodies around her, the manacles around her wrists, the obvious uselessness of the people in the same situation. Except the woman near the door. Jocelyn hadn’t noticed her on her cursory glance around the room at their entrance, ten minutes ago. There was something deathly serious in the way she stared straight ahead. Serious, and deathly. Someone she could relate to. Jocelyn spoke up first,
“My name is Jocelyn.”
It wasn’t much of an introduction, but Jocelyn never knew how to start up a conversation. She thought their similar circumstances might make it easier. The man to her right introduced himself next, and so on around the room: the idiot on the other side of the room, the slight woman to Jocelyn’s left, then silence. She supposed it was probably an awkward quiet, but she had regretted beginning the talking, anyway. The woman near the door did not speak. Jocelyn moved her attention elsewhere, again.
The cell door, straight ahead, was windowless, and looked sturdy. There was no way it was too sturdy for Jocelyn, she thought. There was no way to find out. The six prisoners were restrained by manacles to a horizontal bar, bolted at roughly waist-height. She rolled her shoulders back in boredom, feeling the tendons and muscles crack, then eyed the bag at her feet.
The manacles around the prisoners’ hands were one-size-fit-all. Jocelyn’s brain leap-frogged over itself with thoughts: the items in her backpack, escape, the manacles, that lech’s stupid face, the tensing muscles of her forearms, the lech’s stupid face, escape- then it came to her. Thankfully, Jocelyn hadn’t struggled after the manacles were fastened. Where her skin could be torn and worn away, it was instead only irritated by the old metal clasps. Not as thankfully, her knuckles remained unbroken. Her captors had taken her quickly, and relieved her of both weapons and the use of her arms via restraints. She might be in a better mood if only she had gotten to break someone’s nose.
Jocelyn’s mind had drifted away, again. She tore it from thoughts of fist to breaking bone, and back to the required task: Escape. The bastards had not removed the soap from her backpack, and that might be her route out of the single-size manacles. Hopefully, the twig of a girl next to her also had not wasted energy attempting to shake out of her chains. The soap would only irritate her wounds. Jocelyn didn’t like the idea of relying on someone so apparently physically incapable, but there was no way for her get the backpack opened by herself with her feet. At least, Jocelyn didn’t think so.
She spoke to the center of the room,
“Help me get my backpack opened.”
It took a turn to the girl and repetition of the statement to make it clear who she was addressing. Together, they kicked the bag inexpertly until the zipper was pried open, and a few contents fell out. The soap was one of them.
“Soap up, and slip your hand out,” Jocelyn offered by way of explanation.
The girl nodded, and rested the inside of her right foot on the bar. She slid it gingerly across the rough cement floor, so that it came to rest centered in front of her. The others in the room focused all their attention on the soap, then the young woman.
Aware of her audience, the girl pushed her shoulders backwards into the concrete wall, as if attempting to disappear into it. She braced her hands against the bar running horizontally around the room, and allowed her hips to slide forward so that her feet were more free. With a toe, the she flipped the bar of soap nimbly onto the flat of the top of her foot. Balancing it like a practiced athlete, she performed a swift flip, sending it airborne. Jocelyn straightened in anticipation. Aiming it towards her right shoulder, the girl attempted to catch it in the last moment with a weight shift. She failed.
The bar landed in two pieces. Jocelyn slouched heavily and suddenly against her manacle cuffs. The weight of her body created a tense metal sound that pierced the heavy room. Eyes, skyward, she breathed out expressively.
The perv across from her began fiddling with something in his sleeve, and the other occupants lost interest in the feat almost immediately. They idly turned their attentions back to their own shuffling feet.
Jocelyn was deliberating whether the dumbness of her cell partners was, in fact, more, not less, obnoxious than talkative bunk mates she had in the past, when one of them finally spoke.
“Kick it here.”
The previously silent woman near the door appeared stoic as ever. Jocelyn was not sure she had spoken at all, but the soap was passed. The woman slid it carefully up the wall with a foot, then grasped it with the corresponding hand.
Freed of the chains, she walked purposefully across the room, and placed the bar in Jocelyn’s hand.
“Good luck.”